In between sundays

Psalms

Chapter Four: Psalms and Shoulders

Today was another Sunday.

It’s starting to feel like these Sundays are slowly weaving into one long story I didn’t plan to tell. The dark-skinned brother — Philemon — sat right behind me this time. I didn’t even notice when he came in, not until my phone almost slipped from my hand. Before I could react, he caught it quickly — steady, calm, like he had been watching all along.

It was such a small thing, but it made my heart skip anyway. I said a quiet thank you, and he smiled faintly, like it wasn’t a big deal.

Later, during prayer, I bent my head down on my thighs — the way I usually do when I just want to whisper to God without distractions. His head was resting on my chair. When I raised my head, my back brushed against his hand, and I instantly said, “Sorry.”

He didn’t say anything. Instead, Philemon gently patted my shoulder — twice. Not too soft, not too firm — just enough for me to feel it. It felt like reassurance, like he was silently saying “it’s fine.”

I didn’t turn around, but my heart noticed. It’s strange how something that small can stay with you for hours.

Then there’s Peter.

I read the Bible verse today — Psalms. I pronounced it differently this time, properly, the right way. After the service, Peter was packing chairs again. He passed by and said, “Psalms,” in a teasing tone that made me laugh before I could stop myself.

I told him, “That’s the correct pronunciation.”

He grinned and said, “Not everyone is speaking phonetics, blah blah.” He said it like he was joking, but his eyes stayed on me a little longer than a joke should last.

I told him, “Mother tongues can affect how we pronounce some words.”

He asked, “So how can we avoid that?”

I said, “By practising.”

He nodded, smiling, and then asked what course I was studying. I said “English.”

“Which uni?” he asked.

“OOU,” I replied, and he repeated it softly like he was making a mental note.

That was it. Just short moments, but somehow they filled me more than a whole week’s worth of noise.

And I kept thinking back — to the first Sunday when he asked for my name, to the second when his brother showed me my picture, to the third when he handed me a chair. Every Sunday seems to hold something new, something I can’t explain.

Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it’s just church.

Or maybe it’s the start of something I’m not yet ready to name.

Because sometimes, it’s in the way someone catches your falling phone, or the way another pats your shoulder gently in prayer, or says Psalms with a teasing smile — that you realise how seen you’ve become.